


Let Him Go

by Devidoodle (MadameDevo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon, Depression, I swear I will, I'll ad more as I go along if I need to, I'll make you cry, If this doesn't make you cry I'm not doing my job, John and Mary, John and Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Sadness, So much angst, Thoughts of Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, i changed the timelines around just a tad, mostly - Freeform, until the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameDevo/pseuds/Devidoodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you have any idea what you've done to him?" </p><p>Mary asks this of Sherlock when he reveals to John that he's not dead. But does anyone know what hardships John had to face while he thought Sherlock was dead?</p><p>John didn't realize he actually loved Sherlock until the man was wrenched from his life, and the gaping hole he left was tempered by Mary's kind heart. When Sherlock returns, and John is forced to decide, he can't leave Mary who had been here for him through his toughest moments for someone who he lost faith in long ago.</p><p>But when things take a turn for the worse, Mary is an Assasin, Sherlock has secrets that he won't tell John, and our Army Doctor is stuck in the middle, what decision will he make? Or will fate decide for him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So this piece was inspired by all the dialogue during The Empty Hearse when Sherlock reveals that he is in fact alive. Also inspired by the song "Let Her Go." by Passenger.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBumgq5yVrA ((If you would like to listen to it :) I highly recommend it ))
> 
> Thanks to the WONDERFUL Shellysbees and Beltainefaerie for betaing this piece for me. Sometimes the words just don't want to come, but these lovely lovely ladies always set me straight!
> 
> shellysbees.tumblr.com  
> beltainefaerie.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> Like my style? Got a prompt for a drabble you'd like to see written? Follow me on Tumblr! The Kistune will make your OTP dreams come true!
> 
> devokitsune.tumblr.com

John’s breath quivered slightly as he sighed, the tie around his neck feeling just a bit too tight as he unlocked the door to their- no it was just his flat now. He closed the door wearily behind him, and leaned against it, letting his weight rest heavily against the sturdy wood. Mrs. Hudson had told him she was going by Tesco to get some groceries for dinner. For once she had offered to make him a meal, even though she wasn’t his housekeeper. 

Running a hand over his face, he forced himself to push away from the door and labor up the steps and into 221B. He opened the door with a creak, and everything was just the way he’d left it. Disorganized, papers spilling from the writing table onto the floor, half completed experiments on the kitchen table, and the door to- to the spare room was ajar. He’d have to clean it out eventually, but not today, and probably not soon.

Another exhausted sigh worked it’s way from his throat as he set his keys on the side table, and laid the memorial folder he’d received at the funeral face down so that the detective’s photo couldn’t stare at him any longer. He’d found himself gazing into the eyes in the picture on the front of the folder, instead of listening to the service. He’d been internally having a fight with his memory of Sherlock, trying to understand why he’d said what he did, and had come to the realization that photos didn’t do his sharp eyes justice.

John removed his shoes and made his way up the stairs to change into more comfortable clothes before making himself a much needed cup of tea. He pulled on his black and white jumper, and a pair of loose denim trousers before heading downstairs with bare feet, the cold of the floor taking a bit of the edge off of the jagged pain in his chest. The doctor allowed himself to slip into the comfort of his routine, put the kettle on, pull out the tea, retrieve the milk, pull out the sugar and two mugs-

He looked down at the porcelain in his hands, and stared for a few moments, until the whistling of the kettle broke him from whatever spell he’d been under, and he turned both of them right side up on the counter. Still relishing in the comfort of his normal routine, he set one teabag in each cup. He didn’t allow himself to think about it as he waited for them to steep, and when they were ready, he poured sugar into one, then milk into the other.Carrying both mugs into the living room, he set one on Sherlock’s side table before returning to his chair and slowly sinking into it. 

The small man rubbed his feet on the carpet to warm them slightly before he took a few sips of the tea, and lifted his laptop from it’s spot next to his chair. He opened it without preamble, and pulled up his blog, with the intention of writing about some of their previous cases, maybe to make himself feel better. However, as he stared at the blank text box, the cursor blinking at him hatefully, he looked up, and watched the steam rising from Sherlock’s untouched mug, and felt the walls slowly breaking down around his mind. His next inhale was shaky and he let it out quickly, trying to dispel the prickling at his eyes.

Suddenly the buzzer on the doorbell sounded, and John jumped nearly a foot in the air. Who in the hell would be visiting him now of all times? He ignored it for a moment, but the key in the lock had him wondering whether it was Mrs. Hudson and if she needed his help with the groceries. He made it to the top of the stairs before he saw who it was striding through his front door. None other than Mycroft Holmes stood there, a dark wool cloth over his arm that was hard for John to look at. John must have had the dead deer-in-the-headlights look because Mycroft shifted his weight, and cleared his throat before speaking.

“I know you didn’t expect me John, but I have some things I need to discuss wi-”

“Leave.” John’s word was short and sharp, spoken with force.

“John, don’t be rash, I have things that I need to discuss with you.”

“I don’t care.” he said, his voice tense, “I want you to leave. Now.”

“I will not leave until I have said what I have come to say. Once you have heard me, I will not reach out to you again. Is that fair?” John stared at the man for a long time before he finally acquiesced.

“You have a half-hour.” He allowed, and turned back to the sitting room. Mycroft knew his way into the flat, there was no want or need for John to wait for him. The blonde scooped up the tea he’d made for Sherlock and dumped it into the kitchen sink, and returned to his own chair not indicating for Mycroft to sit. He started to sit in Sherlock’s leather chair, but a pointed look from John, coupled with a clearing of his throat had Mycroft continuing to stand. 

“I was wondering what you plan to do with your living arrangements.”

“Oh god, Mycroft I knew you were bad, but this..., “John indicated at the man standing before him as he rose out of his chair, “This is a new low! Your brother died less than three days ago, I just got back from his funeral, and you want to talk about his assets?!”

“John, listen to m-”

“NO! Now you listen to me!” The doctor strode forward, his finger pointed right up into the regal man’s face, “I have been herded by you long enough. You haven’t carted me off in one of your fancy black cars to some abandoned warehouse, you haven’t attempted to frighten me by turning away the CCTV cameras, we are not meeting on your terms. We are meeting on mine, in MY flat. I don’t care what you’re about to say. You LOST your right to say ANYTHING to me when you SOLD OUT YOUR OWN BROTHER TO HIS WORST ENEMY! I am done with you Mycroft Holmes, when you leave my flat today, I NEVER want to see your face again. Because if I do, your presence will be a constant reminder that you cared more about secrets than your own brother’s well being, and yours will always be the face of the man that took my best friend from me. Not Jim Moriarty’s. YOURS!”

John’s chest was heaving, his small stature forgotten in his rage, “Now take your pathetic apologies and your misguided need to tie up loose ends, and leave me in peace. And know that if you try to make me leave Baker Street, I will fight you tooth and nail every step of the way.”

“John, I’ve only asked because Sherlock left you everything.” 

That stopped John cold. His entire body froze, and his eyes lost focus on the man in front of him, “Wh- what?”

“Sherlock came to me a few months ago, wanting to change his will. He left you everything, right down to his trust fund. He even asked me to continue paying his share of the rent so you could stay here if he died.” 

John’s brain took a second to catch up, but when it did, his eyes were cold again, “I don’t want your money.” 

“Then how will you afford to live here. Sherlock’s trust fund, though it is large, will eventually run out.”

“I’m not going to use his money you prat.” 

“Then how will you afford to stay here? You barely afforded your share while sharing this place.”

“I’ll clean up the extra room, get another flatshare.”

“We both know that will never happen.” John glared at him, but Mycroft could see straight through him. The slight tightening around the soldier’s eyes told him that he was right, “Just let me help you John. Let me do this one thing, for Sherlock, where I didn’t before.”

John cursed, but he had to admit that Mycroft, as always, was right. He looked at the rug, his chair, anywhere but those knowing eyes as he simply nodded. He could feel the shift in Mycroft’s mood. Now that John had been convinced, he was ready to leave. “I have a few more things for you though. I’ll just leave them here.”

He turned and saw Mycroft lay three things on the writing table. The first was a dark wool coat, the second, was the deep blue-purple scarf, and the third was a mobile. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but the elder Holmes only shrugged. 

“He did say everything John Watson. If you should need me, you know where to find me.” With that, the arrogant sod strolled right out of the flat, greeting Mrs. Hudson on the way out. She called to John, but he didn’t hear her. His fingers were tracing up the scratchy material, until it met the soft scarf, and eventually over the smooth glass of the mobile. Slowly, he set the phone to the side, and lifted the scarf from the nest of belongings. 

Mrs. Hudson stopped in the doorway, her hand half raised to knock when she saw what he was holding. She didn’t dare make a sound as she watched the broken man lift the scarf and wrap it around his neck. Slowly and very carefully, she closed the door, vowing to bring him a plate after she was done making dinner. 

John never heard the door close. When the scarf was tucked around his neck, the familiar scent of cigarettes and the Armani cologne Sherlock always wore washed over him. With a pair of trembling hands, he lifted the coat, noting the bloodstains still on the collar, as well as the few drops that had been on the scarf. Mycroft hadn’t had it washed. Just as well, it wouldn’t have smelled like him if he had. 

Very carefully, John slipped his arms inside the sleeves, and pulled it up over his shoulders. It didn’t fit. Not even close. The arms were tight around his biceps and his wide shoulders kept the front from coming even close to closing. It was long, and the normal calf length belstaff brushed the tops of his feet. It was all wrong, and the doctor felt just a bit foolish. The longer he wore it, the tighter his throat got, but for one moment John could pretend that his best friend wasn’t dead, He could pretend like the smell of expensive cologne and cheap cigarettes surrounding him paired with the tight restriction around his frame was an out of character embrace from the only person that had ever really mattered over the past year.

The blonde wrapped his own arms around himself and breathed heavily for a moment, just taking in the familiar scent and letting it strengthen him. When he couldn’t bare the reminder any longer, he pulled his arms from the sleeves and hung the coat and scarf from the peg, beside his own.

 _Back where they belong._ He thought grimly.

“Oo Hoo.” Came Mrs. Hudson’s voice, warning him of her presence before she knocked on the mostly closed door, “John, are you there?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I’m here.” He said, swiping the phone off the table and stuffing it in his pocket so he would have a chance to look over it later as she pushed the door open and came to his side.

“Just wanted to see if you wanted to help me with dinner love, they say keeping your hands busy helps.” He glanced up at the coat and scarf on the wall, the phone a heavy weight in his pocket.

“No, I think I’m alright, I’m actually not very hungry.”

“You wouldn’t let him get away with that excuse. Don’t start giving it to me. I know it’s going to hurt for a while, but you can’t let it eat at you. Please, dear. For me?” John turned to look at her then, and she had a warm smile in place, but he could see the glassiness of her eyes. She was just as upset as he was about this. She tried to hide it, but looking at her now, she was coping the best she could, and who was John to deny her that? He was a soldier, and soldiers endured. He was good at that. He could be strong, if not for himself then he would do it for her.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll be right down.” He gave her the warmest smile he could muster, and pressed against the small of her back to lead her to the door. Standing up on her toes, she placed a soft kiss on his cheek before retreating. 

He rubbed it absently and sank into his chair, retrieving his laptop. It booted up fairly quickly, and the screen was still on his blank blog entry. Quickly, and with certainty, he typed out the last entry he would ever put on his blog.

16th June  
Untitled  
He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him.

Once it was posted, he let a small sad smile cross his face. It felt... complete somehow. Like he’d found the answer he’d been searching for. And for the moment, as he stood, and headed down the stairs to help his landlady with dinner, the weight of the extra phone in his pocket was forgotten. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time had honestly been an accident, just under a month after Sherlock’s death. Once he’d checked the phone for any information that might help him locate his friend or decipher his plan, and found none, he had no excuse for why he kept it charged and with him at all times. No excuses other than a few that his therapist would definitely question, and some that he wasn’t sure he fully comprehended himself. Mostly he supposed it was a security blanket. It felt like a piece of Sherlock was always with him. 

So when John was on his way out the door, heading for a day at the surgery, the sight of the coat and scarf on the peg, the door to Sherlock’s room slightly ajar, as it only was when the man had left in haste, the blonde sent the text message as a reflex.

_Did you run out of here without your coat again? -JW_

When the phone pinged in his pocket, it had come at him like a blow to the chest. He stopped dead, in the middle of the sidewalk, and people mumbled curses as they nearly spilled their morning coffee and walked around him. If he could have taken enough of a breath around the knot that had filled his chest, he would have howled to the sky in pain.

How could he have forgotten? He’d sunk into his chair once home after his shift and just stared at the message until the sun went down, and the cold was starting to bite at his nose and ears. After much thought, he wrote it off as subconsciously wanting to believe that Sherlock was alive somewhere.

The second time it had been like what he assumed addicts felt like when they went after that next hit. He felt sneaky and just a little guilty for it, but the text made him feel better, made him feel like a piece of his normality was returning, and it tempered the hollow ache that had settled into his very being.

From that day forward, he started paying the minimum on Sherlock’s mobile account. No data, and the smallest package that allowed unlimited SMS messaging. He’d had a lot of explaining to do with the phone company, but after explaining, that it was his dead best friend’s phone, that it was for his kid sister, and he wasn’t able to merge it with his own bill until his next contract signing, they agreed to let him change the plan and become a secondary account holder to allow him to make changes to the phone.

He knew it was sick, but a small thrill went through him every time the bill came to the door marked _Mr. Sherlock Holmes._

After that, he began texting Sherlock’s phone with little things, updates about the weather, reminding him not to blow up the kitchen, and asking if they needed milk because he couldn’t remember. All small things that he normally would have said or texted the man had he still been around or alive to hear it. 

All in all, John Watson was coping with the ‘disappearance’, as he liked to call it, of his best friend, and no one could say otherwise. They didn’t know about his little hobby, so Mrs. Hudson, and Harry, and Greg all thought he was doing well. That was, until Greg called him round to NSY for a little help.

“I think you’re mistaking me with Sherlock mate.” He said, his throat catching on his deceased flat mate’s name.

“The thing is, it looks like middle eastern interrogation tactics, and I think you might be able to help me. Will you take a look?”

“I’m not him Greg.” 

“Please John. We haven’t had time to go for a pint in a while, catch the tube up to the station and I’ll take you to the pub after you look at some photos for me. What do you say?” John thought about it for a while but finally agreed. 

“I’ll head up there about half six yeah?”

“Sounds great mate see you then.”


	2. Chapter Two

When John arrived at the station, it was harder than he thought to make himself walk through the doors, but when he did, the emotion was clamped down tight as it had been every morning since the funeral. Tucking his right hand in his trouser pocket, he let the brush of his fingertips against Sherlock’s mobile comfort him. 

He hadn’t been here since he’d come in for questioning after Sherlock's death. Greg had gotten him in and out without having to see anyone else on the force, which had been his saving grace when he’d found out the role that Sergeant Donovan had played in Sherlock’s attempted arrest. He only hoped the silver headed DI was as efficient this time.

The elevator dinged and he stepped out onto the painfully familiar floor, and he made his way to Lestrade’s office without looking up from his feet. He knew the path by heart, so there was really no need.

“John! Glad you could make it.” the DI clapped him on the back and guided him to one of the seats in front of his wooden desk. He gave a tiny smile and exchanged pleasantries for a moment before they finally started going over the files he’d come for. 

For an hour and a half, they looked over photos, and while the techniques resembled those that he’d seen while abroad, they didn’t match up perfectly, and Lestrade’s theory didn’t pan out. After resigning himself to more research in the morning, the Detective Inspector stood and started slipping on his coat. John followed suit, and was feeling better than he had in weeks, chatting with an old friend when they exited the small office. 

John pushed the button on the elevator, and Lestrade was catching him up on his latest relationship issues when the door opened, revealing Donovan and Anderson, carting photos and evidence from whatever case they’d been off to while the two had been talking.

John thought he’d had plenty of time to forget, maybe not forget, but at least for the pain of seeing the woman who had started Lestrade’s doubt and had set so many other horrible things into motion to have dwindled over the past few months. It seemed that was not the case, and he felt every muscle in his body coiling, readying himself for a fight. 

“John?” She said, surprised to see the doctor here of all places, “What a-” 

He never knew what she was going to ask him, sure if he were his old flatmate he could have figured it out, but he wasn’t, and her idiotic sidekick butted in with his ever impressive ability to be a complete arse. 

“I wasn’t aware that we’d begun consulting with _civilians_ again. Are we really that desperate? Didn’t do so well with it the last time.” Both of the other officer’s eyes darted towards him in surprise, but John was already in motion. 

He’d launched himself at the slimy police officer, knocking him back into the elevator, evidence bags and camera case falling from his fingers as the blonde straddled his hips. For John, he felt like he was back in the war, overcome your opponent by any means necessary. No survivors. His fists flew in a flurry and he was sure that he had landed at least half a dozen before arms gripped him around the shoulders and pulled him away.

Donovan had crouched next to the prone man, helping him sit up and dab at his bleeding nose. John could see his left eye was swelling and even through his thrashing, the corner of his mouth turned up in a satisfied smirk. From behind him he could hear Lestrade trying to calm him down, but he was having none of it.

“HOW DARE YOU!?” He roared over everyone talking. He got his feet underneath him again, and leaned against Lestrade’s hold, his body leaning towards the other two. “HOW DO YOU EVEN FUCKING GET BY ON MAKING JOKES LIKE THAT?!”

“Oi! You’re bloody mad to assault an officer at the Yard!” Anderson replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “Aren’t you going to lock him up Lestrade?”

“Anderson, Shut UP. You were asking for it with that kind of comment. John CALM DOWN OR I WILL PUT YOU IN A CELL.” John stopped struggling and sagged against Lestrade, who helped him stand. Once he was huffing, leaning up against the wall, he addressed his subordinates. 

“Donovan, you take Anderson and get him cleaned up. I’m going to take John out of here. We were leaving anyway. But let this be a warning to both of you. I won’t let this slide next time.”

Sally helped Anderson stand up, and the doctor shared a glare with him as they meandered off in the direction of the first aid kit. Because of his explosion, Lestrade made him help take all the evidence into the processing room before they could head out to their favorite pub haunt. He was deathly silent on the car ride over, and it wasn’t until they’d settled at their usual table with a pint each that he said anything.

“I thought you were handling things well mate. What happened back there?”

John sighed, not really wanting to get into this, but knowing the detective wouldn’t let up unless he talked, “I don’t really know. It... I just can’t stand it when people talk bad about him. It was all a bunch of nonsense... you know that right?”

The DI rubbed a tired hand over his face, but when he looked at John again, his expression was careful, “I don’t know what I believe John...”

“Come on, all the things he knew, outside of cases, he knew about my sister, your marital issues, Donovan and Anderson’s relationship. Things all kept super hush hush, that he of all people should never have been able to figure out. He was clever, and amazing, and I will never believe that he was a fake. No one will take that away from me, either.” Greg didn’t say anything, and they carried on drinking in silence, turning their attention to easier matters, like whether Manchester was going to win or not. 

After several pints, and a few shots, John was feeling pleasantly drunk. Lestrade had apparently seen that he needed to let loose, and kept buying him drinks. Now, completely pissed and just on the verge of disorderly, he leaned against Greg as they stumbled down the street towards his car and brought up the detective again. 

“You know. I stopped blogging, but I never stopped writing about my life.”

“What are you on about?” the DI asked. His cheeks were rosy, but he was not near as far gone as John.

“I have Sherlock’s phone. I text him sometimes. Just little things. But mostly I tell him about my day. I guess... a part of me hopes he’s still out there, and by sending these messages, somehow, it might bring him back, if he ever sees them.” It was a surprisingly profound statement considering how drunk he was. 

“If he is out there mate... what’s he doing that’s so damned important that he can’t tell us? I mean you were his best friend. Wouldn’t he tell you if he was still alive?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s in danger.” John said thoughtfully as Greg deposited him in the front seat.

“Yeah, that would be Sherlock alright. He was always in danger.” John decided that a truer statement had never been said. 

Greg ran by a Tesco to purchase some bottled water and asprin to combat the massive hangover John was likely to have in the morning, and he made sure John got inside before driving off towards home. 

John, once he was inside the entrance hall, set the bag down and sent off a text that had been on his mind but he’d never had the bollocks to actually type out.

_I know youre no ded com off it sherlok an justell me whats goin on why cantyou tel me were you are? - JW_

The phone pinged in his pocket. 

_Please Sherock im woried aboutyou - JW_

Ping.

_Com home soon I cant kep living like this - JW_

With the last ping, he dropped himself onto the first step, and pulled the detective’s phone from his pocket. Being completely wasted and reading over his pathetic attempts at forcing himself to believe that Sherlock was still alive was too much for him. 

The doubt and fear that he’d felt leading up to Sherlock’s jump came roaring through him once more with a vengeance. As the tears started blurring the bright blue light from the screen, he pressed a hand into his eye and tried to push them away, but they wouldn’t let up. 

His chest tightened up as sobs wracked his body. Sherlock was gone, regardless of where he had gone, whether it might be dead, or just not where John was. His alcohol addled mind couldn’t raise the walls he put up every day so that people would think he was alright, and for the first time since Sherlock’s phone call, John let himself cry. 

He didn’t realize how bad off he was until Mrs. Hudson came out in her night gown and robe to help his drunken arse up the stairs. She put him to bed like his mother used to and set a bottle of water and the aspirin on the table next to the bed. Once he heard the door close, he threw the covers off, pulled on his dressing gown and stumbled down the stairs, aspirin and water in the pockets. He had sobered enough to dry his tears, but as he turned the knob of the downstairs bedroom, he could feel the pricking start again.

The sheets hadn’t been changed, and as he fell into the large full size bed, he breathed in the scent of his best friend. It was both a comfort and a painful reminder that he was no longer around, and curled up in Sherlock's bed sheets, John cried himself to sleep for the first time since he was a child.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John was startled out of a trance by the buzzer echoing through the silent flat. It had been about three months since the fall, (John refused to even think the word death anymore, it sounded too final) and all the buzz had finally died down. The doctor had no idea who would be calling on him in the middle of the day, and hoisted himself to his feet, setting the ice cold cup of tea on his side table. The moment his feet hit the rug, pins and needles shot up his bad leg from where he’d crossed it over his other, and it was all he could do to stumble down the stairs. Luckily he made it before the visitor had a chance to get impatient and buzz again.

Opening the door he found none other than Phillip Anderson, and promptly tried to slam the door. A hand shot out and blocked it, surprisingly strong for how scrawny he looked. 

“Please John, I know that I’m the last person you expected to see, and I’m probably fairly high on your list of people to kill but I’ve found some information you might want to see.” John’s face screwed up in anger. How dare this pompous prick think he’d want to see anything he had to offer? He started to push on the door again, causing Phillip’s fingers to bow in desperation.

“Please John. It’s about Sherlock. You need to see this.” 

John took a moment to look him up and down, searching for signs of false sincerity, but what he found surprised him. The normally crisp and composed man was just shy of shabby. His hair was greasy and unwashed, and his clothes were rumpled as if he’d been wearing them for a few days. A few weeks worth of facial hair had grown, and it was turning into a full beard now. His eyes were red rimmed and drug down by dark bags beneath them. He looked like shit, and he seemed desperate. John supposed he could hear him out. Especially if it was about Sherlock. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt like whatever it was the man needed to say, it was important, not only to Anderson, but to the doctor as well.

“Yeah, alright. Come in, but the first time you piss me off, I’m wailing on you before I kick you out.” With that said, once Anderson had nodded in understanding, John stepped back, letting him inside. Phillip looked nervous once he’d stepped past John, as if he hadn’t actually expected him to agree. Pushing past the stupefied brunette, John stomped up the stairs, leaving the other to follow.

Upstairs, John moved the chair from the writing desk to the spot on the rug where clients usually sat. Anderson lifted his eyes as if in question, but the blonde just shook his head and pointed to the chair. Taking his seat, Anderson lifted the satchel off of his shoulder and set it on the floor beside him, digging through it for a folder as John lowered himself into his armchair.

“First off...” Phillip said, Tucking his feet under his chair contritely, “I want to apologize for -”

“Save it.” John interrupted, “I don’t believe you’re sorry for any of it, so don’t bother.” The older man was quiet for a long time, his eyes boring into John’s as he tried to think of how to respond to that. Finally, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he spoke intently, imploring John to understand.

“John, the day I found out Sherlock Holmes had jumped off that roof, I couldn’t help thinking that it was my fault. That the things Donovan and I had said had pushed him even a little bit towards that decision. It made me sick. I don’t normally second guess my decisions, but I started wondering if we had been wrong about him. John, I was angry, and confused, and I shouldn’t have said what I did that day you came into the precinct. Seeing you just added fuel to the chaos in my head, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry to you, and Sherlock for acting like a self rigteous arse...” He took a deep breath and pressed on, “I found some inconsistencies in everyone’s stories and... I feel I owe it to you to show you what I’ve found.” Philip bit his lip and sat back in his chair. He’d put everything out there, he only hoped John would accept it.

The blonde took a few moments to think over what the man had said. If it had to do with Sherlock, the least he could do was hear him out. Raising one eyebrow, John invited the brunette to continue.

For the next hour, Philip kept John’s attention with everything he’d found. The fact that they’d never found Jim Moriarty’s body on the rooftop was the biggest one. Anderson brought out handwritten notes and illegal copies of evidence, theory after theory with each new scrap he would pull out of his bag. John found himself sitting forward in curiosity, intrigued by everything the other was bringing to his attention. Anderson was right. He had to be.

“I have to be honest with you though. I’m under review with the MET, and I’ll probably be fired,” Phillip confessed once his folder was empty and everything else was laid out on the floor between them. 

“Did you start digging too deep?” John asked, leaning back in his chair, shoulder aching from putting pressure on it for too long.

“Technically, because of how close Sherlock was to our team, we weren’t allowed to be a part of the investigation. When Lestrade found out I was looking into the files, well. He had to report me. It’s his job.”

“Knowing Greg, he probably did everything he could to avoid it.” John offered.

“The only thing keeping me sane is thinking that, John.” The shared a companionable silence for a long while before Philip spoke again, “It felt good to talk about this to someone who doesn’t think I’m completely crazy.”

“I hear you.” John replied as the brunette began picking up his papers. 

“You look better for it.” Anderson said, organizing a stack and putting it back in a folder, “You’ve actually got some color now. I don’t mean to be rude but you looked like shit when you answered the door.”

“Thanks.” John replied sarcastically, rubbing the back of his head, “I haven’t exactly been myself lately.”

“Understandably so.” Philip replied, turning a knowing, piteous smile to the doctor.

“Now don’t go and fucking do that. Don’t look at me like I’m a poor sod, don’t you dare pity me. If what you’re saying is true, and he’s really out there, you have no reason to pity me.” John huffed, crossing his arms and fixing the other with a hard stare. Anderson just blinked, hardly missing a beat before he spoke.

“You’re right.” He said softly, “But I think getting out will do you some good. There’s two people I’ve met. People who I think legitimately believe in him. You should come meet them with me. We’re all having dinner at Angelos. You look like you could stand to put on a few pounds.”

At the mention of Angelo’s, John felt like his heart had bottomed out in his stomach, and he had to swallow tightly before he answered, “Yeah maybe, I’ll have to think on it though.” 

“Suit yourself, I just thought I’d extend the offer.” he packed the last of his folders into his satchel and stood, “Thank you for listening, John.”

John stood as well and offered his hand, “Thank you for giving me hope.” Philip looked at him oddly, but nodded as he shook the doctor’s hand.

“Any time. You’ve got my number?”

“If not, I’ll get it from Greg.”

“Alright. Thanks again, John, I’ll just see myself out.” Anderson let the smile widen over his face before turning and heading out the door. John watched him go, and ended up staring at the door long after it had been closed. 

Philip was right, it felt like he was always cooped up inside the flat if he wasn’t at work, and now that the thought was in his head, he didn’t know how he’d lasted this long. Sherlock, that arrogant prick, was annoying him even in his disappearance. Well, screw that sod, he was going to go meet with these people, even if it was to talk about said arse. The blonde wormed his hand into his pocket and slid his cell phone out. He sent a quick message and stood to make some more tea before he settled in to watch on of his favorite movies that always served as a pick me up. Wild Targets. He smiled and leaned against the counter as the water began to boil in the kettle.

In his pocket, a second phone buzzed softly, and he didn’t feel, preoccupied as he was with the meeting he would most definitely be attending.

_I’m going to the meeting, and I don’t care what you say you cock. - JW_


End file.
